


The Bloodless Murders

by seagog



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1980s, Horror, Mystery, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 04:59:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18403595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seagog/pseuds/seagog
Summary: There are bodies in the woods. We don't know their names.





	The Bloodless Murders

In the winter of 1988, bodies began appearing on the border between my town and the surrounding woods. A group of campers had stumbled upon a man in his early thirties, completely nude and almost perfectly preserved by the cold weather. By the end of the day, two more had been found within a quarter-mile radius. All three were naked, found lying on open ground as if there’d been no attempt to hide them. One woman and two men. None bore any visible wounds.

The news exploded. It was a little backwoods town where not much happened, so when three strangers turned up dead hardly a mile off of Revell Street, it became all anyone could talk about. I was just a kid then, a few months into sixth grade, and the rumors that spread around school were ridiculous.

Family breakfast that morning was quieter than usual. Mom was horrified, poring over the newspaper as she wondered aloud if it was safe to send my eight-year-old sister and me to school by ourselves.

“Jesus,” she said, gesturing at the paper. “Look at this, Michael. They put their photos in. That’s just not decent.”

Dad glanced over. “I’ll bet you it’s drugs, and this whole fuss is for nothing.”

“Can I see?” I asked, reaching out to take the paper from mom.

She pursed her lips. “Fine, but don’t show Mandy.” I grabbed it and looked it over: three grainy pictures of nondescript faces. It was kind of disappointing, though I didn’t dare say that out loud. While mom was washing the dishes, I let my sister have a peak.

Mandy stuck her tongue out as she looked them over. “That one looks like William,” she giggled, pointing at the leftmost photo, a man with dark hair and a rasp of stubble. “He’s a boy in my class.” It was so innocently morbid that I couldn’t help but laugh. I got up to help mom with the dishes, though even as I occupied myself with chores, I couldn’t help but linger on the strange deaths.

My dad insisted there was a logical explanation for it all. Three young people, drunk and stumbling lost in the woods on a below-zero night… well, he said, you can imagine what happens next.

In the following week, he was proven wrong. The autopsy was published: no trace of drugs, medicinal or otherwise, in their blood. No alcohol either. The cause of death couldn’t be ascertained; there had been no physical trauma, no blood loss, no pre-existing medical conditions. The article in the newspaper declared it most closely resembled death by shock _:_ a sudden, massive rush of adrenaline essentially stunning the heart into inaction. That only seemed to open up more questions. One person might have been explainable, but _three_? What’s enough to shock three people like that?

A chunk of the woods had already been put under police patrol when a new body turned up, nude yet unharmed like the others. It’d been snowing pretty heavily that winter, blanketing the woods in a thick white layer, and at night I’d lay awake and think of how awful it was to die like that, freezing and alone with only the shadows of trees stretching over you.

Before the week was over, there was a fifth body, sprawled in almost the exact same spot. Somehow, nobody had seen where it’d come from. One police officer interviewed by the press said he’d been passing through the area just minutes prior, and in the time that he was gone, it was like it’d just “blinked into existence”.

A fresh wave of rumors emerged at school, though now they were less nervously excited, more tinged with fear. Though the evidence was frustratingly nonexistent, the unspoken consensus was that they _had_ to be murders.

When a sixth body popped up, a 10 pm curfew was imposed on adults and children alike. If I remember correctly, that was around the time the FBI caught wind of the case. The whole stretch of forest had already been cordoned off with police tape, the perimeter constantly surveilled by a flock of solemn-looking officers who made sure no one got in or out. I’d used to play in that forest all the time with my friends, and seeing it suddenly made into the site of six bloodless deaths was surreal, to say the least. That was what the media started calling it: the Bloodless Murders. Sometimes the bodies came in pairs, sometimes alone. By the tenth or eleventh, there was a definite pattern: while they varied in ethnicity and sex, they were all relatively young, twenties to forties, and all found nude. Some even looked as if they’d had clothes on minutes before, with the indentation of a watch or waistband still etched into their skin at the time of discovery.

Have you ever been in a room where everyone’s holding their breath? Every person just waiting for the ball to drop, the silence so bad that you could almost drown in it? Now imagine a whole town.

You want to know the strangest part about all this? Weeks dragged on, and none of the bodies were ever identified. Their fingerprints were intact, but there were no known matches. DNA testing came up empty. A public campaign to find the identities of the Bloodless victims turned up nothing. It was like these people had emerged from nowhere. Deprived of their names and backstories, the victims went unmourned, blurred into one murky entity.

 

* * *

 

Shit really hit the fan about a month into the case. Some up-and-coming journalist—a guy by the name of Walton, I think—claimed to have uncovered the truth behind it all, and wrote a tell-all article divulging the details that hadn’t been released by police or FBI. Apparently, the Bloodless Murders weren’t so bloodless after all. It was true that most were found untouched, but four of the dead practically had had bites taken out of them – whole sections of their bodies just _gone_. One guy was missing almost half his right side, and one of the women was short an arm. “Bites” might be a little misleading, though. The missing pieces had been removed cleanly—almost _too_ cleanly. In Walton’s words, they looked as if they’d been “scooped” out, or simply magicked away.

Walton claimed he had the records to prove the area was under even more intense surveillance than most would’ve guessed. Besides hundreds of cameras that had been covertly installed in trees and rocks throughout the forest, there were also loads of temperature data loggers and state-of-the-art recording equipment, along with a whole host of other devices that I couldn’t even wrap my head around. Stuff that measured radiation and minute changes in the composition of the air. If he was right, it must’ve cost a ton. Supposedly the data showed “climatological deviations”—basically weird spikes and dips in temperature corresponding to the times that the bodies were found.

If Walton was right, there was a good chance that the FBI was in possession of video and audio recordings showing the origin of the bodies. It sounded like a crazy conspiracy, even though Walton hadn’t been able to come up with a solid theory for the reason behind the cover-ups. That was the part that drove me crazy. I must’ve re-read that article a hundred times.

What happened next was total lockdown. The newspaper was pulled from publication in the blink of an eye. The journalist, Walton, publicly apologized for having made fabricated claims and trying to make a spectacle out of the deaths. Not much was heard from him after that. The case was under the full jurisdiction of the FBI, according to my parents, and local police were all but shut out of it. I don’t know what happened, exactly, but suddenly the media coverage dropped to zero.

At school, the teachers gave a talk about it, how we were all safe and there was to be no further spreading of rumors. I remember thinking about the weirdness of that whole day. While Mr. Russell was going on and on about the importance of following the curfew, there’d been a team of adults who quietly escorted kid after kid out of the room, ushering each one back in about ten minutes later. One of them was my friend, Sophia. After the assembly, I quizzed her about what had happened over a lunch of stale pizza.

“It was really weird,” she said, picking halfheartedly at her food. “They took a sample of my spit, and some of my hair and nails too. You think they’re checking for diseases?”

I didn’t know how to answer her. The whole thing left a sour taste in mouth, and I felt helpless and scared. The parents must’ve been encouraged not to talk about it either, because whenever I brought it up to my mom and dad after the whole Walton fiasco had gone down, they shut me down fast.

 

* * *

 

In hindsight, I probably never should have attempted the plan. On a Friday night, I snuck out after curfew, armed with only a handful of granola bars and a flashlight. I biked down to the woods. It didn’t take long; it was one of those childhood routes that you know by heart. I wasn’t even sure about what I was hoping to find. Chalk it up to mix of curiosity and senselessness.

There were patrols standing around, but I managed to make my way to a dense copse of trees and snuck in from there, feeling my heart racing a hundred miles an hour as I ducked under the yellow police tape. The sheer stupidity of my idea hadn’t quite settled in yet. If what Walton had written about the surveillance had been true, there wasn’t a chance in hell that I wasn’t going to get spotted, but being a kid and all, I hoped I’d get off with a slap on the wrist. I turned my flashlight on to the dimmest setting and began my trek, praying that I knew the path through the woods as well as I thought.

Time passed differently that night. Maybe I was walking around for thirty minutes; maybe it was three hours. The sky was inky black, and in the darkness, the trees distorted themselves into more and more monstrous forms with each step I took. All I know is, when I stumbled across the body, the world came to a shuddering halt.

Under the cone of artificial light, the body looked fresh, the skin still pink. I remembered thinking if I’d touched him, he might still have been warm. His eyes were wide open, glassy as a river, face set in an expression of determination. On his bare chest, there was a tattoo, a sentence written in a shaky scrawl:

 

**IT COMES ON 07.11.2036**

 


End file.
